DamagedLemon
Bluelighter
Feedback appreciated 
--
I looked down at my feet and walked carefully, the next step linear to the first. It was a cobblestone ground with rectangular tiles, black and grey in colour with random pops of dark red. It was a chilly autumn night and walking this way comforted me. My fingers found their way to the frayed ends of the purple and blue scarf slung round my neck, and I carried on walking like this playing with them.
The city lights were beaming like happy children tempting me into their playground, and although I was in too somber a mood to join in the laughter and noises of humanity I found a bench to sit on to contemplate upon this. I didn’t want to put myself in a situation where I would regret it. It was a small matter, I know, but small matters have a way of manifesting into big matters or feelings of uneasiness and panic.
After I shuffled towards a bench I plunked myself down onto it, and as I sunk into the hard wood I could feel my soul sinking into it too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if any moment now a dark gaping hole opened beneath me and I fell right into it and got sucked into it, not unlike quicksand. That’s it. I was almost certain the bench was built on quicksand, even though I knew that was not rationally possible.
I fished a packet of cigarettes out of my coat pocket and held it in my face, again staring into it the way I did with the ground, and then I caught a sense of what I was doing and was afraid someone would be looking at me gazing into nothingness and think I was a nutjob, so I took one lonely stick out of the pack and lit a match to it. This proved to be rather difficult given the wind, and I wasted but two matches before succeeding. I carried matches and not lighters with me because I had a strong sense of the world and all its rawness whenever I used a match, and I liked that.
As I sat in my own world puffing slowly away on my cigarette my gaze turned again towards the ecstatic city lights. It was almost as if they were in a world of their own. It struck me then that we are all in the same world but in this world there are so many different other worlds, most of which we will never come close to understanding or be in. This was both beautiful and sad to me.
Faint figures appeared to be emerging from that world, heading towards mine. I then chose a position where I could study them but yet look like I wasn’t interested in their business if they wanted anything from me. I had nothing on me except ten dollars and a pack of cigarettes. As the figures grew closer my slight fear diminished into nonexistence when I realised what was going on.
A group of about three somewhat sober middle-aged men had pulled a slurring, giggling drunk out of a bar and by the expressions on their faces I gathered that the drunk had offended them in some way. They plopped him against a wall and they seemed viciously angry. Before I knew it, one of the men had punched the drunk in the stomach, the other had thrown him onto the ground, and the three of them started kicking him like wild, mad animals without any self control.
I looked around me to see if anyone would help, I know I couldn’t by myself – and to be honest I didn’t want to get involved with business, especially business belonging to strangers. The entire time he was being beaten up the drunk sneered menacingly towards them as if asking for more. He was laughing hysterically and this only angered the men more, so they kicked him with more force and brutality.
When they had had enough they said to each other, “Look, let’s go. This guy’s crazy.” Then they went away.
I waited carefully till they went away and I approached the drunk, keeping my distance clear however. His face was all bloodied and some of the blood had spilt onto his brown coat, giving him the classic look of a manic serial killer. The long dark hair that hung to his shoulders looked unwashed and despite all that he actually looked like the sanest person I had ever seen in my life.
“What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” Curiosity escaped my lips.
“I promise I shall never give up and that I’ll die yelling and laughing.”
“What?”
“I promise I shall never give up and that I’ll die yelling and laughing. Jack Kerouac!”
At this point I understood what he meant. I understood what he meant with every inch of my being and I, too, started with a slight chuckle. The more I thought about it the more all my problems seemed pointless now. I shall never give up and I’ll die yelling and laughing. We looked at each other and saw the glimmer in each other’s eyes and together, two complete strangers from different worlds, we were waist-bent and knee-slapping, guffawing heartily.
--
I looked down at my feet and walked carefully, the next step linear to the first. It was a cobblestone ground with rectangular tiles, black and grey in colour with random pops of dark red. It was a chilly autumn night and walking this way comforted me. My fingers found their way to the frayed ends of the purple and blue scarf slung round my neck, and I carried on walking like this playing with them.
The city lights were beaming like happy children tempting me into their playground, and although I was in too somber a mood to join in the laughter and noises of humanity I found a bench to sit on to contemplate upon this. I didn’t want to put myself in a situation where I would regret it. It was a small matter, I know, but small matters have a way of manifesting into big matters or feelings of uneasiness and panic.
After I shuffled towards a bench I plunked myself down onto it, and as I sunk into the hard wood I could feel my soul sinking into it too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if any moment now a dark gaping hole opened beneath me and I fell right into it and got sucked into it, not unlike quicksand. That’s it. I was almost certain the bench was built on quicksand, even though I knew that was not rationally possible.
I fished a packet of cigarettes out of my coat pocket and held it in my face, again staring into it the way I did with the ground, and then I caught a sense of what I was doing and was afraid someone would be looking at me gazing into nothingness and think I was a nutjob, so I took one lonely stick out of the pack and lit a match to it. This proved to be rather difficult given the wind, and I wasted but two matches before succeeding. I carried matches and not lighters with me because I had a strong sense of the world and all its rawness whenever I used a match, and I liked that.
As I sat in my own world puffing slowly away on my cigarette my gaze turned again towards the ecstatic city lights. It was almost as if they were in a world of their own. It struck me then that we are all in the same world but in this world there are so many different other worlds, most of which we will never come close to understanding or be in. This was both beautiful and sad to me.
Faint figures appeared to be emerging from that world, heading towards mine. I then chose a position where I could study them but yet look like I wasn’t interested in their business if they wanted anything from me. I had nothing on me except ten dollars and a pack of cigarettes. As the figures grew closer my slight fear diminished into nonexistence when I realised what was going on.
A group of about three somewhat sober middle-aged men had pulled a slurring, giggling drunk out of a bar and by the expressions on their faces I gathered that the drunk had offended them in some way. They plopped him against a wall and they seemed viciously angry. Before I knew it, one of the men had punched the drunk in the stomach, the other had thrown him onto the ground, and the three of them started kicking him like wild, mad animals without any self control.
I looked around me to see if anyone would help, I know I couldn’t by myself – and to be honest I didn’t want to get involved with business, especially business belonging to strangers. The entire time he was being beaten up the drunk sneered menacingly towards them as if asking for more. He was laughing hysterically and this only angered the men more, so they kicked him with more force and brutality.
When they had had enough they said to each other, “Look, let’s go. This guy’s crazy.” Then they went away.
I waited carefully till they went away and I approached the drunk, keeping my distance clear however. His face was all bloodied and some of the blood had spilt onto his brown coat, giving him the classic look of a manic serial killer. The long dark hair that hung to his shoulders looked unwashed and despite all that he actually looked like the sanest person I had ever seen in my life.
“What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” Curiosity escaped my lips.
“I promise I shall never give up and that I’ll die yelling and laughing.”
“What?”
“I promise I shall never give up and that I’ll die yelling and laughing. Jack Kerouac!”
At this point I understood what he meant. I understood what he meant with every inch of my being and I, too, started with a slight chuckle. The more I thought about it the more all my problems seemed pointless now. I shall never give up and I’ll die yelling and laughing. We looked at each other and saw the glimmer in each other’s eyes and together, two complete strangers from different worlds, we were waist-bent and knee-slapping, guffawing heartily.
